


Luck Be a Lady

by dulciscoeur



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: F/F, Sort Of, kind of, suburban moms, undercover?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 14:08:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17602796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dulciscoeur/pseuds/dulciscoeur
Summary: Debbie and Lou go *kind of* undercover to a suburban neighborhood (thanks, Tammy) and steal antique jewelry. Fun ensues.





	Luck Be a Lady

**Author's Note:**

> sorry it’s so short and sorry it’s unbetaed and also sorry i haven’t updated any of my other fics and wrote this instead.

Debbie is at a party in exactly the type of ostentatious suburban house that revoltingly rich people buy when they want to pretend they’re modest. It brings some unwanted memories back.

She was halfway through her whiskey when a text from Lou came - **I’m sure soccer moms only drink whiskey in secret** \- so now she’s drinking something fruity that tastes pretentious, sipping every 27 seconds. Arm up, glass to her lips, arm down.

Matthew, her mark, has been chattering about his new brewery project for fifteen agonizingly long minutes. She’s only half-listening to make the appropriate noises and sympathetic expressions one makes to seem engaged in the conversation. He is self-centered enough not to notice she’s learned more than she _ever_ wanted about yeast.

Not to mention other things she’s learned, like the extent of just how far fragile masculinity can go when Matthew wouldn’t shut up about how macho his new bar will look - _“Industrial furniture and black paint attracts more male customers as opposed to Scandinavian furniture and white paint— wise choice if you’re looking to attract females and gay men”_ \- like that’s an interesting subject or something. Debbie wants to tell him most of the gay men she knows don’t even like beer, but is distracted by the feel of her little toe fucking pounding inside Lou’s high heels. Stealing them was perhaps not her best idea.

Everything is just a bit fucking much. Lou’s nowhere to be seen even though Debbie knows she’s somewhere in the room. Matthew won’t stop talking. Things are going nowhere.

Think, plan, execute.

She finishes the rest of drink as delicately as she can in one big gulp and right on cue, a waiter drifts by and offers to relieve her of her glass. She thanks him (for the interruption, but he doesn’t need to know that) and turns to Matthew again to seize the opportunity she’s just created.

“So craft beer is just _one_ of your projects?” she asks him, gushed, all sing-song voice and saccharine smile. “That means you have many?”

Someone should write her a check for her ability to act this impressed.

Predictably, Matthew gives her that arrogant smile men like him give women when they’re about to show off their plumage like birds in courtship display, shifting his feet, chest genuinely inflating like a pigeon’s crop. It takes actual effort to stop herself from rolling her eyes the way she wants to— hard enough to almost cause optic nerve damage. Apparently, her body gets exasperated if sufficiently provoked.

Somewhere in her mind, there is an image of a battery bar Debbie fondly named 'a representation of my precarious tolerance for assholes' that keeps beeping like it’s running low on power.

“ _Actually,_ I’m also considering opening an antique shop, mostly focused on antique jewelry. Don’t tell anyone, but my parents threw this party just to cheer my brother up. He got divorced and is going through some shit. Can’t handle the business right now so I’m taking over.”

But Debbie already knew all this thanks to Tammy. What she needs is for him to tell her something else, something she actually wants to know, like where they keep the jewels because she knows they are somewhere in the house.

With that in mind, she scoots a little closer to him so that her side is almost pressed up against his, hand goes to his forearm. She lets it linger there for one, two, three seconds, squeezes gently, lets go. His eyes widen, darting down to the place where her fingers had been.

Debbie would’ve felt satisfied at her efficiency if she had more place inside her body for any other emotion that isn’t mild impatience.

Her phone vibrates in her sling bag just then and she looks at the screen discreetly.

**You’re going to scandalize the old couples.**

She looks around, eyes searching for blond hair and a teasing smirk. All they find is, indeed, scandalized old couples looking at her.

She types a quick “ **jealous?** ” and swears she can hear Lou snort.

She shoves her phone into her purse a little more roughly than necessary because Lou shouldn’t be having this much fun when she’s stuck listening to Hipster Jerk in wholly impractical shoes with no real booze in her glass to at least relief her from some of the physical discomfort she is feeling.

“That’s very nice of you.”

Matthew coughs out something like a proud laugh.

“He had to move back here with my parents for the time being,” he continues. Debbie hums in acknowledgment, bored to death. “Bitch kept his house,” he clarifies unnecessarily, like she’s too dumb to understand what he meant.

Lamenting that she doesn’t have mind-control powers, she watches him take a sip of expensive rosé, hoping he chokes. Just a little.

She tries not to feel disappointed when that doesn’t happen.

“That’s awful, I’m sorry,” in the tone she imagines someone who actually feels that way would use.

It’s not like she is particularly snappish, but Debbie can get quite irritable when things take longer than strictly necessary and she believes she’s running out of patience. There’s only so much friendliness she can fake and she thinks she’s probably used 88% of her daily dose already. And the worst part, with no satisfying results.

Resisting the urge to bounce on the balls of her feet, she customer-service-smiles even harder, pretending to listen to the unnecessary amount of words that are coming from his ever-moving mouth.

“We had to bring all the jewels from the shop and store them here,” he says, oblivious. She doesn’t let her face show that caught her genuine attention. _Finally._ “Damn burglars tried to break into his shop three times when they noticed he hadn’t opened in weeks. If it weren’t for...”

Just to rush things, because at long last the conversation got interesting but mostly because she’s afraid she might do something regrettable if he goes off on a snobby tangent again, she takes a subtle step back— small but hopefully noticeable enough that his subconscious would read her body language as 'starting to lose of interest'. She nods deliberately slow, blinks leisurely once, like a cat, just for good measure.

She also yawns, but only in her mind.

Her lack of enthusiastic response stops his incessant babble abruptly. Jesus fuck, thank God, she was genuinely afraid she might commit her first murder and that is a line she does not want to cross.

She promises herself to devote a whole day to honest contemplation of her mental health after this if the universe would be kind enough to never put her in a position where a job tests her composure like this ever again.

Matthew looks offended that she would dare not to swoon with delight at whatever he was saying. The nerve.

“Let me show you some of the pieces we have,” he suggests smugly, like that’s something she can’t refuse.

Debbie almost feels sorry for taking advantage of someone so easily manipulable. Instead, she smiles a pleased smile.

“I’m sure you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He doesn’t even give her the time to answer before answering himself. “Never met a woman who wouldn’t,” he laughs like it’s the most hilarious thing anyone’s ever said.

Debbie laughs a little too, but only because she’s imagining squeezing his throat to wipe that condescending smile off his face permanently.

“I would love that.”

She makes it to the third floor without punching Matthew for lowering the hand that was at her waist not once, but twice as they were making their way up the stairs.

Once Matthew stops in front of the guest room where she assumes they keep the pieces of jewelry, she waits until he’s used his key and unlock the door to claim that she’s feeling sick out of the sudden, trying her best impression of someone who’s about to throw up at any given time.

He looks at her with a disgusted expression, like he’s the one who is sick, but grabs her by the arm anyway and guides her to the opposite side of the hallway in a rush, rather forcefully, almost dragging her by the time they turn to the left and reach the closest bathroom.

Immediately after she’s inside and out of his sight, she texts Lou:

**All clear. 7 minutes tops. Third floor, left hallway, fourth door to your right.**

Her phone lights up with a reply seconds later.

**About damn time. Almost got worried you fell for his manicured beard.**

Debbie eye-rolls so hard she thinks Lou must the energy of it from across the house.

 

* * *

  
It’s all rather quick and thirty minutes later they are at a restaurant, each of them a few thousand dollars richer.

It’s not much because they didn’t wanna raise any suspicions and draw attention to themselves, but they are having rib eye steak with rosemary and garlic butter paired with Zinfandel so they can’t really complain.

Debbie tops up her glass a second time, swirling it before taking a sip.

“Next time, you are the one doing all the talking,” she says.

Lou sort of laughs, the sound muffled by the meat stuffed into her mouth. When she finishes chewing, she tips her head and looks up at her, eyes alight with purpose.

“But you are so good at what you do. Intended and precise,” she pauses, considering. “In more ways than one.”

Debbie’s hand stops mid-air, a piece of meat hanging from her fork. Lou’s pupils are wide in the dim light, and Debbie finds it hard to ignore the warmth that instantly takes hold in her chest. She eyes Lou’s lips curl into a coy smile, fights back the urge to kiss her right there until they are achingly tender.

“Shut up.” She gives her a little smile of her own.

“Or...?” Lou asks, speaking around the food in her mouth, eyebrows almost reaching her hairline.

“Or I’ll make you,” she promises, enjoying the way Lou’s breath catches in her throat.

 


End file.
